


The Invasion of Mastering Love

by Tito11



Series: The Imperfect Lovers [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1570079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tito11/pseuds/Tito11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the miracle that Sarah O’Brien manages to pull out of her hat, it’s like all of Thomas’s vaguest daydreams come true. He’s not so eager to her face, of course, because they might be friends, but he knows what she’s like, and he’s not about to give her the satisfaction of seeing him grateful. He’ll not owe her, not even for this, not even for the promotion to Sergeant and the chance to be near Edward again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Invasion of Mastering Love

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the whole s2. Title from Siegfried Sassoon's "The Imperfect Lover," which will be more relevant if I can get the third fic in this series down on paper. 
> 
> I actually proofread half of this then got lazy, so lemme know if you spot anything amiss :)

In the end, it takes closer to two months than one after his promise to Edward Courtenay, but it’s a fair price to pay, in Thomas’s opinion, given what O’Brien manages to do for him, for them. He’d always imagined that Nurse Crawley would focus her work in the house, once the convalescent home was all sorted, and though he had plans to be terribly jealous, the important thing was, Edward wouldn’t be alone. They might have ended up married in the end, Edward and Sybil, especially with Branson being called up, but it would have been worth it to see Edward happy and alive. And if Edward was happy, Thomas would have been happy. 

Still, with the miracle that Sarah O’Brien manages to pull out of her hat, it’s like all of Thomas’s vaguest daydreams come true. He’s not so eager to her face, of course, because they might be friends, but he knows what she’s like, and he’s not about to give her the satisfaction of seeing him grateful. He’ll not owe her, not even for this, not even for the promotion to Sergeant and the chance to be near Edward again. 

The position itself, once he gets over the completely natural urge to lord it over the other servants and especially old Carson, isn’t much different from what he was doing in the hospital. It’s on a much grander scale now, but it was always his job to direct the nurses and manage the patients, to fold bed sheets and distribute medication. At Downton, though, he’s not got the Major hovering over his shoulder, making a mess of Thomas’s hard work and butting his nose in where it don’t belong. No, instead he’s got Mrs. Crawley, and though she’s a fearsome busybody, she’s got no real authority over him, not yet anyway, and that makes a pleasant change, right enough. 

Even better, though, than being away from Major Clarkson, better even than the look on Carson’s face when Thomas reminds him of his rank and insists upon being addressed as such, is when the third shipment of soldiers comes in during their second week up and running and the last man to touch foot to ground is the one Thomas has been waiting for.

“If you’ll step right this way, sir,” Thomas says and he hopes he sounds more like a professional than like the lovesick ninny he really is. He puts a hand out to guide Edward cautiously, not sure how his help will be accepted. 

“Corporal Barrow?” Edward asks immediately, and Thomas sighs in relief. He hadn’t thought Edward would up and forget him, not with the letters Thomas had penned him every week. They weren’t very interesting letters, granted, though he’d tried to make them so. The responses he’d gotten back hadn’t been very long or involved, but Thomas had told himself time and again that it was only because Edward didn’t like having to go through an intermediary to do his writing for him. 

“It’s Sergeant Barrow, now, sir,” Thomas tells him happily and he’s gratified when Edward smiles that curious little half-smile, the one he wore the night he called Thomas’s face sweet. It’s the smile that makes Thomas’s breath catch and he can’t help but think, _maybe_. 

“Oh?” Edward asks. “You didn’t say so in your letters.”

“Must’ve slipped my mind,” Thomas says vaguely, in truth though it hadn’t. It had been deliberate, actually; he’d always simply signed his letters with his surname, like he would if the two of them were really mates instead of an officer and his subordinate- a silly daydream, but one Edward wasn’t likely to notice, not when he couldn’t even read the letters on his own. “Now, sir, if you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to your room.”

When they were sorting out sleeping arrangements for this new batch of men, Thomas had made sure to get Edward a spot in the Herbert Bedroom. It’s perfect for his needs, really, being as it’s on the ground floor, with no call to navigate the stairs at all, and it’s one of the smaller rooms they’ve used, besides, sleeping only eight men instead of the usual twelve. It’s also rather near the hidden entrance to the back stairs, so it’s easy access, in case Thomas needs to be at his side in a hurry. 

Not that he’s thinks it’s likely Edward will try to top himself again, but it’s better safe than sorry, as Thomas’s old mum used to say. And of course, even if it’s not an emergency, it’ll be easier on Thomas to sneak down here some nights so they can have a chat, should Edward give any hint at all that might be welcomed. 

“Have you been practicing with your stick, sir?” Thomas asks as he gets Edward settled. He looks a tad shaky with it, to be frank, but it could just be that the journey over was taxing.

“Ah,” Edward says uneasily, blushing a dull red. “Well, Farley Hall and I disagreed with one another, I'm afraid.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that, sir,” he says, though as a matter of fact, he isn't at all. It’s not that he doesn’t wish the best for Edward or want him to be his own man again, but the fact is, the longer it takes Edward to adjust to his condition, the longer he’ll be able to stay at the convalescent home with Thomas. “But don’t worry; Nurse Crawley and me, we’ll get you back up on it in no time.”

“I would appreciate that,” Edward says softly, sweetly, and Thomas has to look away so as not to lose his wits completely. 

“I’ll unpack for you, shall I, sir?” Thomas says to distract himself. It’s not exactly a daunting task, but it is something to do with his hands. Edward, like the other officers, has only a small valise containing his pyjamas, an extra set of underthings, and a bundle of letters, ones Thomas giddily recognizes as his own, with the writing just smeared enough that Thomas can tell Edward touches them an excessive amount. It doesn’t have to mean anything, it could be a fluke, but somehow Thomas thinks it isn’t.

The men are to wear their uniforms during the day, of course, which means there isn’t really a need for a lot of extra outfits, but Thomas is inexplicably reminded of the days before the war when he would valet for his lordship’s guests, with all their fine clothes and stylish suits. The Duke of Crowborough never went anywhere without a full complimentary wardrobe, which had taken ages to unpack (and gave Thomas an excuse to be in his room for an extended period of time, as well) and Thomas imagines that wherever in this ruined world that man is, he’d laugh himself sick if he could see Thomas now. Thomas himself might laugh, as well, though his laughter would be from pure joy at having Edward near him again, at having the hope he’d almost suppressed spring mercilessly to life again in a matter of minutes. It may not come to anything in the end, he knows, but for all that hope has hurt him in the past, he could never resist it, and this time is no exception.

 

The worst bit about being brought to Downton Abbey is that Edward’s surrounded by men he’s never met before and can’t tell apart. When he’d first lost his sight (and goodness, was it really so long ago that he left the Front?), he’d tried to memorize the voice of every person he’d come across. It hadn’t worked; there are just too many people one runs into each and every day to remember them all, and it hadn’t taken long for Edward to start remembering only the important people, like Corporal Barrow and Nurse Crawley. 

The best part about being brought to Downton is, of course, Corporal Barrow - Sergeant now, of course, though Edward will admit to thinking of him in his own private thoughts as Thomas, even if he'd never dream of saying it aloud. But it really is worth all the hassle of the move, because of the way things fall into place with the man, like Edward had never left at all. Nurse Crawley is busier than ever, apparently, and finds less time to devote solely to Edward’s needs, but either Thomas’s position is less taxing or he puts in more effort, because he and Edward start spending time together in the afternoons, ostensibly on the business of rehabilitation. 

The reality is less professional. They do work with the walking stick, as Thomas promised they would, and Edward finds himself picking up on it again, remembering the little tricks he’d learned the first time over two months ago, the things about counting steps and feeling distance. He’ll admit it had been childish, the way he’d refused to use the stick at Farley Hall, but sometimes Edward feels he honestly can’t help himself. These moods that overtake him, the ones that make him do rash things like refuse his dinner or slice open his wrists, he can never resist them. Sometimes they last hours and sometimes days, but he’s always sorry for the things he’s done once they’ve gone. Nothing, not even Thomas’s voice, is enough to take them away completely. Thomas does make it better, though, and that’s certainly something.

In the times when they’re not practicing walking (like an infant, Edward thinks despairingly, in his darkest moments), he and Thomas sit and talk, like they used to in the hospital. Most times, their conversations aren’t important or extremely riveting. Thomas seems to like to talk, though, and he especially likes to talk about the people he knows. He’s actually extremely knowledgeable about the people around him, though how he knows the things he does is a mystery to Edward. 

The love lives of the Crawley sisters, for example, is a topic Edward would never in a thousand years have any contribution to, except that Thomas seems to be an expert on the subject and doesn’t mind making that known, leastways not to Edward. Lady Mary Crawley, the oldest, is apparently quite beautiful, though very aloof. She had been engaged to Lord Grantham’s heir before he was killed in that terrible business with the _RMS Titanic_ , at which point Grantham brought in his new heir, the very Captain Crawley that Edward hears so very much about any time he’s unfortunate enough to end up standing alone near Mrs. Crawley. Captain Crawley also had a dalliance with Lady Mary, though they’ve parted ways now, at least allegedly; despite the presence of Lady Mary’s new beau (some newspaper man Edward’s never heard of), Thomas has his suspicions. Thomas seems very suspicious of Lady Mary in general, in fact, and has referred to her more than once as a “danger to men,” which Edward had supposed to be metaphorical the first time but is now no longer quite so sure at all. He stays clear of her, just in case, and she makes it quite easy, because she never comes around the officers if she can help it.

Lady Edith is the very plainest of the Crawley daughters, according to Thomas. Well, Edward certainly knows something about that, what with having Jack for a brother, but he supposes it’s much worse for a girl to plain than for a man, because at least Edward was never relying on his face to make a decent match (and a good thing, too, now that the scars around his eyes have made the prospect even worse). Still, Lady Edith is downright helpful, always ready and willing to assist Edward when he can’t for the life of him find the room he wishes to be in and Thomas is nowhere to be found. 

And then there’s Nurse Crawley. Thomas is much kinder about her than about her sisters. He speaks highly of her in a way Edward never hears him do about anyone else. She’s beautiful, Thomas tells him, and patient and lovely: a real lady. She truly cares for her patients and she never has an unkind word for anyone. Edward knows all of that, of course, doesn’t need Thomas to tell him it, and to be perfectly honest, it makes Edward slightly uncomfortable to hear. Because, as much as Edward appreciates the woman and even admires her, he hates to be faced with the truth of the matter. 

The truth, of course, is that Thomas is in love with Nurse Crawley. And that’s… quite fine. Really. So what if Thomas is the most wonderful man Edward has ever known. So what if Thomas is helpful and kind when Edward needs him to be, and yet scathing and mocking at exactly the right moments; so what if he can grab his hand and give it a squeeze in one moment, then turn around and call him a lazy git for staying abed through breakfast the next. So what if Thomas has a voice that makes Edward’s breath catch and his heart skip beats; so what if he believes in Edward in a way Edward himself hasn’t been able to since the moment he realized he’d never see again. So what if all of that is true, because even if Thomas wasn’t in love with Nurse Crawley, he’d never love Edward. In the end, Edward has nothing to give Thomas, lovely, competent, capable Thomas. It’s fine, because Edward doesn’t deserve him, anyway. And there’s nothing he can do about any of that, so he does what he can and makes the most of their time together.

 

“Do you know what I miss?” Edward asks wistfully one evening after dinner. They’re nearby a rowdy group of officers playing poker for sport and one of them is kicking up a fuss about the man next to him cheating. “Cards. It’s rather boring, not being able to see. There’s no cricket, there’s no rugby, there’s no newspaper, and there are never any cards. I can’t even watch the nurses and orderlies walk past like a proper invalid.”

“Don't be daft; you’re not an invalid,” Thomas scoffs. “And I’m happy to read you the paper, if y’like.”

“I do appreciate that,” Edward says, and he’s afraid he’s rather less courteous in his thanks than he might ordinarily be. He knows Thomas means well and it honestly does brighten up his day to hear what’s on in the news, but of course, it’s not like reading it for himself would be. He does feel rather helpless, sometimes, and though he’d rather rely on Thomas than anyone else in the world, he’d like to rely on himself most of all. 

“Of course,” Thomas continues speculatively, “if you took up that dot-language Nurse Crawley’s always going on about, we could probably work out a way to mark the cards or what have you. That way, you could play poker with the rest of the lads. Read books, too, I’d wager. It wouldn’t make a difference with the paper, but for some things it’d be downright useful.”

“Perhaps,” Edward says, but honestly, he’s hesitant. Of course, he had felt that way about the stick, too, before he’d starting using it, and now he’s got the hang of it he can about walk places completely on his own, once he learns layouts and things. That counting-steps trick works, as well, and maybe one day he’ll actually be able to go out on the town on his own again. Still, this dot nonsense seems different, somehow, perhaps because Thomas would be entirely unable to help him in it and if Edward failed, it would be completely on his own, where he most hates to be. But it is something to consider, at the very least.

 

As it happens, the matter is taken out of their hands entirely, because less than a week later, Nurse Crawley corners Edward after tea and slips a book into his hands. It’s not quite an ordinary book, Edward can tell that by running his fingers over the cover, which is smooth and glossy around the edges, but strangely shaped in the middle, with several lines of raised bumps. It’s quite heavy and thick, as well.

“It just came in the post today,” Nurse Crawley says excitedly. “I’ve been in correspondence with some of the staff from the Royal School for the Blind in Liverpool. They mostly teach Braille to children, I understand, but they do deal with a fair number of adults, as well, and they’re perfectly willing to have someone out to do a bit of teaching if we can get enough interest.”

Edward doesn’t know how she thinks she’s going to get enough interest, with only a handful of the officers here unable to see, but Nurse Crawley does have ways of achieving the impossible, as Edward’s found out. “Thank you,” he says politely. He appreciates the gesture, even if he’s not entirely convinced about the learning of this dot-language, this Braille.

 

Later, when Thomas comes to sit and talk before dinner, he says, “Taking up religion, are you?”

“Am I?” Edward asks. He isn’t, of course, and he’s not sure what would have led Thomas to that conclusion.

“You’ve got a bible on your pillow there,” Thomas explains. “Thought maybe you were joining the priesthood or somethin’.”  
Edward feels around for the book he’d set aside earlier and hands it over to Thomas. “It’s a bible?” he asks. Nurse Crawley hadn’t had time to do more than give it to him earlier before she’d been called away to help with some emergency.

“Yes, but it’s got these funny sort of bumps on it, as well as the words. Is this Nurse Crawley’s dots, then? Only I thought you’d told her you weren’t interested.”

“I did,” Edward says, slightly put-out about the whole thing. “She was rather insistent. Perhaps- would you have the time to help me?” 

“'Course I do,” Thomas says easily, as though he’d do anything for Edward, anything at all. “How d’you want me?”

Edward suppresses a shiver at the question, because of course Thomas had meant it entirely innocently and it’s not the poor man’s fault that Edward has this, this perversion. It’s certainly not Thomas’s fault that how Edward wants him is in his arms and in his body. 

“Perhaps you should sit next to me,” he manages after a moment to collect himself. “Then you could just read the verse out loud and I’ll try the dots. I’m not sure it will do much good, but perhaps…” He trails off hopefully. 

“Alright,” Thomas says, and sits down on Edward’s bed, close enough that their thighs brush together and their elbows jostle. Edward’s heart kicks up, pounding fast enough to be painful and loud enough Edward can all but hear it. His palms itch, as well, and he clenches them around the book, holding as tight as he dares without wrinkling the thing.

“The front just says, ‘The Holy Bible, Authorized King James Version, Braille Translation.’”

“Right,” Edward says, mostly to himself, and puts fingertips to page.

 

“How is the Braille coming on?” Nurse Crawley asks a few days later. “I noticed you and Sergeant Barrow were working on it.”

“Poorly,” Edward answers grumpily. It’s not just that the bible is needlessly long and complicated, it’s that the dots are so tiny and he can’t tell them apart, no matter how many times he and Thomas go over the same few verses. What he needs, loath as he is to admit it, is a child’s primer, the sort that would teach him letters and numbers before he had to work his way up to actual words and sentences. He honestly doesn’t know why that blind school sent him a bible, anyway, unless they thought he was clearly in need of religious guidance in his time of trouble (which may be true, but he certainly isn’t going to be able to get it without being able to read).

“Oh,” Nurse Crawley says, sounding disappointed. “Well, maybe it’s just because of the book they sent. I’ll write them again and see if they have another, maybe something a bit simpler.”

“Mmm,” Edward agrees noncommittally and rubs at his eyes, which have started to ache again. He doesn’t care either way, really, not about the book and not about learning this blasted Braille, which is just as well, because he’s never going to be able to do it. He should have known at the beginning he was too dim-witted to manage it. 

 

Edward is in a bad mood for all of July. Thomas doesn’t know what causes it, but the man seems to be in a constant state of discontent. Some days, he refuses to even venture outside for their customary practice with the stick (which might more accurately be labeled as Thomas dodging his duties and instead taking a leisurely walk with a man he sort-of loves). They talk less, as well, and some days Edward can’t even be persuaded to get himself up for meals. He eyes hurt him terribly at times and he has nightmares, as well, or so the night nurses inform Thomas. Edward apologizes for all of these things near daily, because he’s too well-bred and too polite to let it go, but that doesn’t stop them from happening, and the whole thing just sets Thomas on edge.

But of course, Thomas can’t spend all his time worrying about Edward, even if he’d like to, because he does have his own duties and he’s got other things on his plate just then, besides. The visit of General Sir Herbert Strutt, for one thing, which puts the house in an uproar. Between Carson going mad over the lack of footman and O’Brien wanting to strategize on how to get the better of Mrs. Crawley, it’s barely a moment Thomas has to himself in the weeks leading up to the visit. Bloody Lang acting like he’s the only one of them to ever set foot on the front lines doesn’t help, either, especially not with the screaming in the night (though when he tries to complain to O’Brien about this, she gives him a look that actually has Thomas worrying for his safety).

The General's actual visit is eventful in a way things only ever are at Downton. Thomas does his part, talking down Mrs. Crawley to Major Clarkson before the tour of the house and making sure O’Brien sees him do it. During the tour itself, Thomas mostly follows behind, but he manages to slip away and warn Edward before they get to his wing, because it wouldn’t do to have the brass see him still in his nightclothes or worse. Later, at supper, there’s some sort of scuffle with Branson trying to murder the General (or possibly just force him to eat slop for a soup course; Thomas is never entirely sure), but after that, the Major pronounces Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crawley to be equally in charge of the convalescent home, putting Thomas very squarely outside Sarah O’Brien’s debt once again. For once, Thomas thinks, things seem to be going well.

 

The sound of the guns wakes him and Thomas is onto the floor and half under the bed before his eyes are even fully open. When he does manage to open them, he realizes almost immediately where he is and feels like a an idiot, because it’s not the Hun firing at him, after all, just someone in the corridor banging on his door like it's the Second Coming. 

Quick as he can, he pulls himself upright and grabs his dressing gown, yanks it on with hands that won’t quite stop trembling. He shoves the left into his pocket and uses the other to pull open the door, revealing little Nurse Porter, looking scared but determined. 

“What are you on about?” he all but shouts at her and she cowers back, glancing from side to side, where others have started to come out from their rooms, all looking very put out at the interruption to their sleep.

“Begging your pardon, Sergeant,” she says quickly and quietly. “It’s just- you’re needed downstairs.”

At the look of death Thomas gives her, she adds, “It’s Lieutenant Courtenay!”

Edward, Thomas thinks in a sudden panic, and rushes past her without another glance back, leaving his door swinging open for all and sundry to see inside. He takes the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time, trying not to think about how much blood there had been the last time Edward had an emergency in the night.

The man’s in a right state when Thomas gets to his bedside, but for all that he’s giving the three nurses converged around him grief, there’s no blood in sight. He’s upright in his bed, shaking like leaf and batting away with trembling hands all who try to touch him. His panicked breathing is audible even from the doorway and he keeps turning his head from side to side, as though he’s expecting an attack and can’t stop himself from trying to keep watch.

“Give ‘im a bit of space!” Thomas demands and the nurses scatter at his voice. He approaches the bed while the nurses start to herd the other patients back into their own beds. When Thomas is just out of arm’s reach of Edward, he lowers his voice to a soothing timbre and calls, “Lieutenant.”

Edward doesn’t respond, not directly, just shrinks back into himself, arms wrapping around his chest, and says, “Don’t! Don’t touch me!” like he had said to the nurses a moment before.

“Lieutenant,” Thomas repeats, louder but not sharp. When Edward still doesn’t respond, just shakes all the harder, Thomas steps in closer, wary of Edward’s arms but warier still of the eyes watching them from all around the room. “Edward,” he says softly, and Edward jerks his head toward Thomas at last.

“Thomas?” he asks, voice breaking. “Are you- is there… Where are you?”

“I’m just here,” Thomas says, and touches his knee gently, gratified when Edward’s hand comes up to cover his. 

“I’d forgotten,” Edward whispers, so quietly Thomas has to lean in to hear him properly. “I dreamt of the gas, and when I woke, it was so dark. It’s always so dark. I hate this, Thomas. I hate it.”

Thomas doesn’t say, ‘It was just a dream,’ because it’s anything but. It’s always dark for Edward and it’ll never be light again. Instead, he says, “Tomorrow, in the morning, we should go outside an’ have a walk. You can _feel_ the sunlight, then.” 

“Yes,” Edward says, voice breaking. He blinks the tears away from his eyes and clutches Thomas’s hand all the tighter. “That sounds- lovely.”

 

Thomas sits with Edward until the shaking stops, then he gets him back under the covers and goes to pull Nurse Evans aside, being as she’s the senior nurse on duty at the moment. “Don’t send Porter up to the rooms again,” he tells her wearily, because he knows how this works and even in an emergency, it’s best not to have one of the single young girls in the men’s hall. “Send up one of the widows, alright?”

She nods and Thomas sighs, relieved. That’ll save them all a bit of trouble in future, at least, even if Thomas will probably get hell from Mr. Carson and Mrs. Crawley both in the morning. As if it’s his fault the night nurses are too dim to think of these things. 

Later, once he’s back in his own bed, he finds sleep aggravatingly elusive. He doesn’t blame Edward, could never blame the man for anything, but of course, Edward’s not the only one to have nightmares about the war. Thomas had been rather cold toward Mr. Lang when he’d woken them all that once, but he’ll admit to having a few bad dreams himself. He’s not sure he’d trust any man who went through that hell and didn’t come out with his mind in revolt at times. And to wake from one of those nightmares and not even be able to look around and make sure you’re not still at the Front, well, that might be the worst thing Thomas can think of. It’s no wonder, really, that Edward’s been slowly losing his mind.

 

True to his word, Thomas takes Edward out for a walk the next day. He’s not particularly nice about forcing him to get out of bed and get dressed, but there are times when a man needs a firm hand and this is one of them. He helps him dress in his uniform (the first time since General Strutt’s visit that he’s done so), and then forces his stick into his hand. 

“We’re taking a walk, Lieutenant,” he says firmly. He’ll coerce him if he has to, knows he could trick him into it, but he doesn’t like to do that with the men he loves (which is how he knew he was never in love with the Duke of Crowborough, incidentally). But it turns out he doesn’t need to, anyway. 

“Very well,” Edward says, and that’s that.

Thomas lets Edward lead, because he thinks it might help him to know he can. There are too many rooms in the house for him to find learn the way to every one of them, but he’s got the steps to the front door memorized and Thomas follows behind him silently, letting him listen for people and feel any obstacles in his path. They get outside without even a stumble and Thomas is insanely proud. He claps Edward lightly on the back (because he’s all but given up on treating Edward like a proper superior officer by this point) and says, “Lead on, sir.”

It’s a silent walk, for the most part, as Edward leads them on a winding stroll through the grounds, far enough away from the other officers that their chatter can barely be heard (by Thomas, at least, though he’d bet Edward’s hearing has become more acute, enough at least that he’ll be able to get them back to the house just by listening to the chatter of the men surrounding it).

“I’m sorry,” Edward says at last, pausing in his steps to turn and face Thomas.

“For what, sir?” Thomas asks.

“I’ve been… rather difficult,” Edward says. “And I’m sorry for that.”

“S’alright,” Thomas assures him. “S’no trouble. Really.” And for Thomas, it isn’t. He’d prefer Edward in a happier mood, smiling and easy, but Thomas doesn’t mind the hard times. After all, if it weren’t for the times when Edward is serious and melancholy, Thomas wouldn’t know to appreciate the times when the man is soft and sweet, the times like right now.

 

Nurse Crawley does eventually make good on her promise to have someone out from that blind school in Liverpool. He’s an older gent by the name of Dr. Ogden, and he’s got white hair and a sort of terrifying glass eye. He takes it in turns, helping the blind officers individually and in groups. Edward, Thomas knows from his spying on these meetings, does not do well in groups, even groups of people who are also blind. He does better when Thomas or Nurse Crawley are obvious about their loitering in the room and watching, but there isn’t often time for that, and anyway, it’s probably better in the long-run for Edward to do things on his own without Thomas’s help, because for all of Thomas’s oaths to the contrary (to himself, as he daren’t say it out loud to Edward), there’ll be a day when they’ve got to part ways, the two of them, and they’ll each have to learn to be alone again.

Dr. Ogden actually does know what he’s about, it transpires,, even if he does leave his hands on Edward rather longer than he needs to, in Thomas’s estimation. He brings books with him that are much simpler and more useful than that stupid bible, and he advises Edward to soften his hands by wearing gloves to bed, a task Thomas is only too pleased to help him with. 

It’s not long before Edward’s fingers start to form calluses on the tips, something Thomas tries at all cost not to think of, except when he touches himself in the night. The calluses, combined with the new and improved learning books (ones with enlarged dots instead of the tiny ones in the bible), mean that Edward does eventually pick on up at least a few of the letters and enough of the numbers that Thomas is sure playing cards will someday be an option again, especially if he and Thomas can make time every few days to practice. The confidence this brings Edward is enough that he finally breaks out of his terrible mood once and for all, and though he still has short-lived spells of melancholy, things are much-improved.

 

“What’s the news?” Edward asks when Thomas sits down in the chair beside his bed. It’s quiet in the dormitory this time of day, when all the other men are out and about in the sunshine, enjoying the weather before the autumn turns to winter. The lack of other noise means he can hear the rustle of a newspaper and he knows Thomas means to read to him.

“They say it’ll be over by Christmas,” Thomas says and rustles his paper again.

“They say that every year,” Edward tells him. “They said it in 1914, and after Christmas had come and gone without peace, they decided it would be the year after. But then…”

“It never was,” Thomas finishes for him. “Won’t be this year, either, if what I’m hearing from the poor sods just brought to the hospital is any truth.” 

“No,” Edward sighs, feeling weighted down all of the sudden - for the men at the hospital, for the men at the Front, for himself abed and helpless, for everything. “I don’t suppose it will be Christmas this year, either.”

“The Yanks are really in it now, though,” Thomas reminds him. “Maybe next year’s our year.”

“I hope that’s true,” Edward says. “What will you do, after the war?”

“I’ll not be a footman again, I’ll tell you that for nothing,” Thomas says, voice suddenly hard, and something sort of closes up in Edward’s throat even as he reminds himself that he’d known that. He’d known Thomas has ambition and wouldn’t be satisfied staying in service forever, but still, a part of him had hoped… well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?

“Open a shop, maybe," Thomas continues, "if I can get up the money. Be a real businessman.”

“You’d be good at that,” Edward says automatically, swallowing back his disappointment. Thomas, with his smooth voice and slick charm, he could sell… well ‘love to a blind man’ probably isn’t the colloquial expression, but that doesn’t make it untrue.

“I would,” Thomas agrees easily, sounding pleased now instead of angry. It’s a tone Edward enjoys hearing. 

“I hope it works for you,” Edward says. He truly does. He wants Thomas to have everything he’s ever wanted, even if that means Edward loses out on what he wants. The better part of love, he thinks, is knowing when someone is better off without you. And what would Thomas ever want with a useless invalid for a lover, anyway?

“And you?” Thomas asks in return. “What’ll you do, after?”

Edward clears his throat and wets his dry lips. “Return home, I suppose. To the estate, that is. Avery Park. Though I don’t what I’ll do with myself, once I’m there. In the old days, I used to love to ride, but of course that’s not an option any longer. Even the horses have been given over to the war effort. And with… with Jack taking over the running of the place, I suppose I’ll just have to content myself with, I don’t really know, playing patience with the marked cards, perhaps.”

It doesn’t sound a very appealing prospect, but Thomas surely must be used to Edward’s self-pity by now. He nudges Edward with his foot and says, “I could visit, if y’like. Maybe play something more interesting than that. Poker, at least.”

“I’d like that,” Edward says. And he would. It’s not the fulfillment of his every hope and dream, but it’s a good sight better than never seeing Thomas again at all. 

 

The months come and go like that. Every morning, Thomas gets up and washes, then joins the downstairs for breakfast, where he smiles smugly at Carson and makes a point of not lifting a finger when the rest of them scuttle off to be good little servants. Thomas takes his time finishing his morning tea, then makes a leisurely inspection of the house (usually complete with a lengthy stop in the Herbert Bedroom to wake Edward and help him dress), making sure none of the men are out of place or in the midst of an emergency. After, he meets with the Head Night Nurse, who relays to him any pertinent information before her shift ends. He takes this information and meets with Lady Grantham and Mrs. Crawley. In between their bickering, they relay to him their special orders, and he sees that these orders get done. He is extremely important and highly competent and very, very pleased with himself, as a general rule. 

In the house at large, nothing really ever changes. Men come and go, but a few stick around, particularly those who can’t be sent back to the front, because for many of them, there’s no hurry. Edward is one of those men, of course, but he’s thoughtful and polite, so no one really minds him. Thomas does think that maybe if anyone paid any attention to anything but their own problems, it might be a different story, but this is Downton, after all, and the intrigue and drama are sometimes nearly too much for even Thomas to bear.

In the early months of the new year, the relationship between Mrs. Crawley and her ladyship starts to break down at last. Mrs. Crawley finally takes a hint and realizes she’s not wanted, going off to France, instead to help poor starving orphans or something like that. Of course, no sooner is she gone than Captain Crawley and poor daft William are reported as missing, which puts the whole house in hysterics. They keep on with the concert, anyway, and with Captain Crawley’s sense of timing, it’s no surprise to Thomas when he waltzes in halfway through and sets everyone crying. 

Bates comes back, as well, and Thomas thinks it would bother him more (especially that bit about being confronted by his lordship in person for not telling everyone and their mother Bates’s whereabouts), except that he’s got better things to worry about. Edward’s a welcome distraction from the trials of the day, and their walks a nice respite from the noise of the house. Edward sets him at ease in a way no one else can, and Thomas can’t help himself but to daydream sometimes that Edward might hire him on after the war, make him his valet (and lover). It’s a silly thing, of course, and like as not impossible, but it keeps Thomas going, even in the trying times of that year.

He does manage to make some time with Nurse Crawley. They’re not as close now as they were at the hospital, but she comes to him sometimes, when they can both spare a moment. Thomas tells her about his worries over Edward (not the romantic ones, just the practical bits), and she tells him her troubles with Branson. He gives her the same piece of advice he’d give himself, if he could.

“You’ve got to take what you want, milady,” he says earnestly, more earnestly than he ever would have done before the war. “You can’t let them stop you from being happy. If you think this is your chance at that, you can’t not take it.”

“I know,” Sybil says. She touches his arm lightly and looks into his eyes, like they’re equals, like they’re friends, like he means as much to her as she does to him. “Thank you, Thomas.”

 

And then comes Amiens, and William and Captain Crawley both come back half-dead. Thomas feels sorry for the both of them, and the injustice of William not being allowed to come home to die is near overwhelming. The lot of them downstairs are shocked he gives a damn and them upstairs don’t understand, not even darling Edward, so Thomas is left to seethe on his own at how the working class gets shoved down and stomped on at every turn.

It gets arranged, of course, with the connections of the Dowager, and William is brought back to Downton. Vera Bates shows back up, as well, to make trouble, because of course Sarah O’Brien hadn’t thought her letter quite through before she’d sent it off. They used to be so close, to two of them, but the closer Thomas gets to Edward, the farther he strays from Sarah’s influence, and he’s not sorry for that, not at all. With Sarah, everything is intrigue and trouble, and though Thomas still enjoys taking part in all that from time to time, he finds himself a better man these days: a man in love. He even lets himself shed a tear for William, married and dead in the same day, the poor lad.

With Matthew Crawley paralyzed, the inheritance games begin again, but Thomas has had just about enough of that, to be honest. The man claiming to be Patrick Crawley doesn’t help, either, but Thomas finds other things than intrigue to occupy himself with, things like planning for the future. The end of the war is near, they can all of them all but taste it, and it looks like the black market might be the ticket, if Thomas could manage, and if… well, if no better offers else comes up first.

 

And then, somehow, the war is over at long last. His lordship himself interrupts their supper to tell it, but it _is_ over. There’s laughing and crying and toasting, and Thomas feels a sort of relief he hadn’t quite known he could any longer. They’ve done it, they’ve come through the war alive. They’re scarred, the lot of them, and no one will ever be the same again. William is dead and Thomas has near lost his hand. Daisy’s a widow and Ethel’s a mother. Matthew Crawley will never walk again and Lady Mary is betrothed to a nouveau riche bastard. And Edward, poor dear Edward, he’s blind and scared and all alone upstairs in the company of men he barely knows. He’ll never sport again and his brother’s taken his birthright as heir. Like so many of them, like Thomas himself, Edward has no life to go back to.

“Excuse me,” Thomas mutters after the laughter at the servant’s table has died down. He can feel O’Brien’s eyes on him and he just doesn’t care. He sets his cup down, hard enough that the champagne inside splashes out and onto the table. Then he turns and walks out. He takes the stairs up two at a time. Edward’s in the Herbert Bedroom, and the officers must have heard the news, celebrating as they are.

“Lieutenant Courtenay,” Thomas says. “I need a word.” It’s not proper and it’s not polite, but Edward says, “Yes, of course,” and lets Thomas drag him out into the hall. There’s no one about, but Thomas doesn’t take any chances. He pulls Edward down the hall a bit and into one of the linen cupboards. 

“You’ve heard, then?” Edward asks breathlessly, smiling in a way Thomas has never seen before, like he might cry at any second but not from pain or fear or despair. He looks like he’s wholly happy and Thomas can’t help himself but to smile back and hope Edward can hear it in his voice. 

“I have,” Thomas says. It’s now or never, he thinks. The war is over, and there’s nowhere to go but up from here. The war is over, and Thomas never wants to be alone again. He’d sworn, hadn’t he? He swore that day Edward left the hospital that he was never going to let them be parted again. Now or never, he thinks again, and he kisses him.

It’s not what Thomas would call a good kiss, certainly. Edward’s lips are chapped and still with shock, but Thomas doesn’t care, because this might be the worst idea he’s ever had, but the war is over now, the world is free and anything is possible. He holds his breath as he pulls back, but Edward doesn’t say anything or even move. He just stands there in shock for long, long moments until Thomas is starting to be genuinely worried, enough so that the euphoria of impending peace starts to ebb out of him.

“Sir?” he asks carefully, voice very nearly wavering. “Lieutenant?” 

There’s no answer, so Thomas tries, “Edward?”

For whatever reason, that snaps Edward out of it. “Yes,” he breathes, hand coming up to touch his own lips where Thomas’s had touched him only a moment ago. “Thomas, yes. Let’s- can we…” He doesn’t wait to finish his own question, just reaches out touch Thomas. His hand lands on Thomas’s shoulder then slides up to cup his cheek, and it stays there, even as Edward leans in and kisses Thomas again. 

It’s a much, much better kiss this time, with two active participants and a fair amount of teeth and tongue. It’s hot and wet and sort of rough, and it sends a wave of heat through Thomas, the kind he hasn’t felt in years. It’s- so bloody good, is what, and Thomas wants to keep this up, possibly for the rest of forever, if that can at all be arranged.

When they break apart, panting, Edward rests his forehead against Thomas’s. “What about Nurse Crawley?” he asks.

“Nurse Crawley?” Thomas asks, fearing suddenly that he’s gotten it wrong and Edward has fancied Lady Sybil all this time. “She’s running off with Branson.”

“Brilliant,” Edward says happily, and no, apparently his love for her wasn’t the concern at all. He swallows once and then says, “Come home with me. Come work for me and be my man.” Thomas can hear the hard edge in his voice, the one that he always gets when he’s being brave. He’s taking a chance here, stepping out on a limb and hoping it’ll hold him, and Thomas couldn’t punish him for that, even if this wasn’t something he’s dreamt about for near on to two years. Edward is the bravest man Thomas knows, no competition, and only an idiot would let a man like this go. Thomas, for all the sins that might be laid at his feet, is not an idiot.

“I’m a damned good valet,” he volunteers, voice slightly hoarse. “I can be very… hands-on, if that’s your preference.”

“It is,” Edward says, and he laughs. Thomas laughs, too, truly happy for the first time in years.


End file.
